


Exposure

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [23]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Antagonism, Bottom Eggsy, Cameras, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Eventual Smut, Exhibitionism, Fame, Fashion & Couture, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Modeling, Money, Photography, Role Reversal, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Top Harry, Voyeurism, Watching, Wealth, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy is a famous photographer and Harry is his model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure

* * *

 

Eggsy wasn’t the type of photographer who slept with his models. He just wasn’t. And it wasn’t simply because it was unprofessional, or because it would give him a bad rap. It was because, when he saw the human form through a lens, it was just that—a form, a shape, light and shadow, color and movement, a composition of angles and proportions. It was a series of moments in time, each perfectly still, hung upon a gesture or an expression like paintings hung in a museum.

He didn’t really see _bodies_. That was for when he was drinking with Roxy on a Saturday night and Roxy was netting all the girls, so Eggsy could sneak away with a bloke and have it off in the alley behind whichever bar they happened to be at.

It was anonymous, and comforting because of its anonymity. Eggsy wasn’t the only queer photographer in London, but he didn’t want his sexuality plastered across glossy magazine pages or discussed in salacious gossip columns, his split-ups and mistakes feeding the petty schadenfreude of idle rumor-mongers. He didn’t want to field endless questions about his bisexuality and whether he was “actually” gay, given that he mostly fancied men.

Sex was sex, and work was work.

So it was surprising when, in the middle of a shoot, the subject of one of Eggsy’s neatly composed mind-paintings stepped out of its frame and came to life.

Eggsy blinked.

At the center of his lens was a waist, narrow and tapered, its waistcoated lines leading up to impossibly broad shoulders, a gray silk cravat and a strong, clean-shaven jaw. Above that was a thin, mobile mouth, capable of flirtation but presently solemn, and dark, downturned eyes partly hidden behind the glint of black-rimmed glasses. Those eyes looked up, straight at Eggsy, piercing and _electric_ , and a current sizzled through Eggsy, shocking him. On the sides of his camera, his fingers trembled. The focal point wavered.

For the first time, Eggsy gazed through his lens and saw a body. A soul. A man.

And he couldn’t understand why.

“Break,” he announced, and withdrew from the set, because he couldn’t concentrate like this. He couldn’t do the job. It was embarrassing. He handed his camera to his assistant, Digby, and went to the sequestered area behind the curtain, set aside for snacks and drinks. Eggsy filled a styrofoam cup with icy water from the cooler and drank, its coldness soothing his inexplicably parched throat.

Eventually, Digby made a reappearance and hovered anxiously in the background. “Um,” Digby said. “The shoot…?”

“Stop hovering,” Eggsy snapped, “and check my schedule for the rest of the day.”

“Eager to be done with me, are you?”

Eggsy whirled around, the water sloshing in his cup.

It was the model. Eggsy couldn’t remember his name, because it didn’t matter to him who he was photographing, although he had a reputation as a celebrity photographer and therefore was likely to be photographing celebrities. He couldn’t place this bloke, though.

“Harry Hart.” That distractingly mobile mouth curled in amusement. “At your service.”

Hart. The owner of Kingsman. Wasn’t that— “You just bought Microsoft,” Eggsy said.

“My company bought Microsoft,” Harry corrected. “I merely facilitated its acquisition.” Harry’s amusement gained an unspoken edge, ruthless and quietly feral, that made Eggsy uneasy. “I believe in acquiring things that catch my attention,” Harry said, “be they artworks or companies… or people.”

Eggsy glanced away from Harry, because it felt somehow dangerous to keep looking at him without the barrier of a lens. It made Eggsy feel naked, undefended, vulnerable without his armor. “Is that so?” Eggsy filled another cup, draining it. “I don’t need to know anything about my subjects before photographing them. It’ll cloud my judgment.”

“So I’ve heard. You’re famous for your peculiar detachment. You can’t even remember which publication you’re photographing me for, can you?”

“GQ?” Eggsy hazarded a guess.

“Indeed. Although I may have pulled a few strings to ensure that it was you who was photographing me.”

“What? Why?”

“Haven’t you ever been told that you look like you ought to be on the other end of that infernal camera of yours?”

“Is that a compliment?”

Harry shrugged. “A curiosity. I wonder… Have you ever been photographed? With the sort of laser-like attention you give to your models? You have no notion of what it does to them, do you?”

Eggsy did. He’d been hit on frequently enough to get the hint. Despite not meaning to, he aroused his subjects. Not all of them, but many of them. He’d refused every single offer. Always. “We should return to the set,” Eggsy said, because this conversation was unnerving him, picking at seams he thought he’d sewn shut.

“Of course,” Harry concurred. “I apologize for informing you of my identity and thereby clouding your judgment. I hope you’ll still be able to,” Harry smirked, “perform.”

Eggsy scowled. “Digby,” he called, and Digby popped up like a djinn, holding out the camera with obvious relief. “Let’s do this,” Eggsy said, and marched back to the set. He was strangely angry. He was also worried that his anger would taint any shots he took, destroying them.

But it didn’t. When he instructed Harry to move, Harry moved, and when he instructed Harry to pose, Harry posed. And yet, Eggsy wasn’t mollified. What Harry was giving him wasn’t cooperation. It was a taunt. Or a temptation. Or both.

When Harry leaned against the prop desk, it stretched his suit across his shoulders, accentuating the muscle beneath the fine fabric. The flawlessness of Harry’s tie and the symmetrical lapels of Harry’s suit got on Eggsy’s nerves. He kept asking Harry to shift, to bend, to turn, because he had to shatter that symmetry. That composure.

It didn’t shatter.

The shoot itself went smoothly, despite the simmer in Eggsy’s blood that warmed his face. It wasn’t a blush. It was annoyance. It was—

“To the left,” Eggsy said tersely, and with an infuriating smile, Harry repositioned himself. He was so bloody _obliging_. Eggsy was being patronized, wasn’t he? And just because Harry was older. And a billionaire. And god’s gift to fashion designers.

Bastard.

Eggsy damn well took some of the best shots of his career, because he had to, because he was being goaded to.

All the while, Harry watched him back, as patient as a banked fire, with eyes like embers.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)! I also run a blog for my [original gay fiction](http://dominiquefrost.tumblr.com/).


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